In the Garden Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “She was more outgoing?” Mitch prompted.

  “Oh, much. She liked to socialize, nearly as much as she liked to garden. She loved hosting fancy lunches and teas, especially. She dressed up for them—hat, gloves, floaty dresses.”

  “I’ve seen pictures. She was elegant.”

  “Yet she could hitch on old trousers and dig in the dirt for hours.”

  “Like someone else we know.” He skimmed a hand over her hair. “Your grandfather was born several years after the youngest of his sisters.”

  “Hmm. There were other pregnancies, I think. My grandmother had two miscarriages herself, and I recall, vaguely, her mentioning that her mother-in-law had suffered the same thing. Maybe a stillbirth as well.”

  “And then a son, born at the same time we’ve theorized Amelia lived—and died. Amelia, who haunts the house, but who we can’t verify lived there—certainly not as a relation. Who sings to children, gives every appearance of being devoted to children—and distrusting, even despising men.”

  She cocked her head. Twilight was moving very quickly to dark, and with dark came a chill. “Yes, and?”

  “What if the child that was born in 1892 was her child. Her son, Roz. Amelia’s son, not Beatrice Harper’s.”

  “That’s a very extreme theory, Mitchell.”

  “Is it? Maybe. It’s only a theory, in any case, and partially based on somewhat wild speculation. But it wouldn’t be unprecedented.”

  “I would have heard. Surely there would have been some mention of it, some whisper passed along.”

  “How? Why? If the original players were careful to keep it quiet. The wealthy, the influential man craving a son—and paying for one. Hell, it still happens.”

  “But . . .” She pushed to her feet. “How could they hide that kind of deception? You’re not talking about some legal adoption.”

  “No, I’m not. Just run with me on this a minute. What if Reginald hired a young woman, likely one of some breeding, some intelligence, who’d found herself in trouble. He pays the bills, gives her a safe haven, takes the child off her hands if it’s a boy.”

  “And if it’s a girl, he’s wasted his time and money?”

  “A gamble. Another angle might be he impregnated her himself.”

  “And his wife just accepted his bastard as her own, as the heir?”

  “He held the purse strings, didn’t he?”

  She stood very still, rubbing her arms. “That’s a very cold theory.”

  “It is. Maybe he was in love with Amelia, planned to divorce his wife, marry her. She might have died in childbirth. Or it could’ve been a straight business deal—or something else. But if that child, if Reginald Harper Jr. was Amelia’s son, it explains some things.”

  “Such as?”

  “She’s never hurt you or anyone of your blood. Couldn’t that be because you’re her blood? Her descendant? Her great-grandchild?”

  She paced away from the little grave. “Then why is she in the house, on the property? Are you theorizing she birthed that baby here? In Harper House?”

  “Possibly. Or that she visited here, spent time here. Maybe as the child’s nurse, that’s not unprecedented, either. That she died here, one way or the other.”

  “One way or—”

  The grave was not small, and it had no marker. It gaped open dark and deep.

  She stood over it, stood over that wide mouth in the earth. She looked down at death. The body in the tattered and filthy gown, the flesh that was melting away from bone. The smell of decay swarmed over her like fat, humming bees, stinging her eyes, her throat, her belly.

  The ground was damp and slippery where she stood. Over it a thin, fetid fog crawled, smearing the black dirt, the wet grass with dirty tongues of gray.

  She plunged the shovel through that fog, into the earth and grass, filled the blade. Then threw the earth into the grave.

  The eyes of the dead opened, gleaming with madness and malice. Lifting a hand, bones piercing horribly through rotted flesh, it began to climb out of the earth.

  Roz jolted, and slapped at the hands holding her.

  “Easy, easy. Just breathe. Nice and slow.”

  “What happened?” She pushed at Mitch’s hand again when she realized she was on the ground, cradled in his lap.

  “You fainted.”

  “I certainly did not. I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  “Consider this your first. You went sheet white, your eyes rolled straight back in your head. I grabbed you when you started to go down. You were only out about a minute.” Trembling a bit himself, he lowered his brow to hers. “Longest minute of my life, so far.”

  He took a long breath, then another. “If you’re okay, would you mind if I just sat here a minute until I settle down?”

  “Well, that’s the damnedest thing.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll just table the theories. Let’s get you inside.”

  “You don’t think I passed out because you had me thinking my grandfather might’ve been born on the wrong side of the blanket? Christ. What do you take me for? I’m not some silly, spineless woman who questions her own identity because of the actions of her ancestors. I know who the hell I am.”

  Her color was back now, and those long-lidded eyes were ripe with irritation.

  “Then you want to tell me why . . .” Now he went pale as polished glass. “God, Roz, are you pregnant?”

  “Get a hold of yourself. A few minutes ago you’re calling me a grandmother, now you’re going into shock thinking I could be pregnant. I’m not going to present either one of us with a midlife baby, so relax. I had some sort of spell, I suppose.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “One second we were talking, and the next I was standing—I don’t know where, but I was standing over an open grave. She was in it. Amelia, and she was not looking her best.”

  She couldn’t stop the shudder, and let her head rest against him. That good, strong shoulder. “More than dead, decomposing. I could see it, smell it. I suppose that’s what took me down. It was, to put it mildly, very unpleasant. I was burying her, I think. Then she opened her eyes, started to climb out.”

  “If it’s any consolation, if that had happened to me, I’d have fainted, too.”

  “I don’t know if it was here, I mean this particular spot. It didn’t seem like it, but I can’t be sure. I’ve walked by here countless times. I planted that pachysandra, those sweet olives, and I never felt anything strange before.”

  “To risk another theory, you were never this close to finding out who she was before.”

  “I guess not. We’ll have to dig.” She pushed to her feet. “We’ll have to dig and see if she’s here.”

  THEY SET UP lights and dug beyond midnight. The men, and Roz, with Stella and Hayley taking turns between shovels and remaining inside to mind the sleeping children.

  They found nothing but the bones of a beloved dog.

  “COULD BE METAPHORICAL.”

  Roz looked up at Harper as they walked the woods toward home the next day. She knew very well why he was with her, his arm slung casually around her shoulder, because Mitch had told him she’d fainted.

  She’d barely had five minutes to herself since it happened. That was going to change, she thought, but she’d give him and the rest of her honorary family a day before she shooed them back.

  “What could be metaphorical?”

  “That, you know, vision thing you had. Standing over her grave, shoveling dirt on her.” He winced. “I don’t mean to wig you out.”

  “You’re not. Who used to have nightmares after watching that Saturday morning show? What was it, Land of the Lost?”

  “Jeez. The Sleestak.” He shuddered, and only part of the movement was mocking. “I still get nightmares. But anyway, what I’m saying is you never stood over her grave, never buried her. She died a long time ago. But if we do the metaphor thing, we could say how you’re trying to open her grave—but by missing so
mething, not finding something, whatever, you’re burying her.”

  “So, it’s all in my mind.”

  “Maybe she’s planting it there. I don’t know, Mama.”

  She considered a moment. “Mitch has a theory. We were discussing it before I keeled over.”

  She told him, sliding her arm around his waist as she did. Together, they stopped at the edge of the woods, studying the house.

  “Doesn’t seem so far-fetched, all things considered,” Harper said. “It always seemed like she was one of us.”

  “Seems to me it only opens up another box of questions, and doesn’t really get us any closer to finding out who she was. But I know one thing. I want those diaries more than ever. If Jane doesn’t come through, I’m going to take on Clarise.”

  “Want me to play ref?”

  “I might just. If Amelia is part of the family, she deserves her due. That said, I don’t feel the same about Clarise. She’s always wanted more than her due, in my opinion. I don’t know what it makes me to feel more sympathy for a dead woman, who may or may not be some blood kin, than I do for a live one who unquestionably is blood kin.”

  “She smacked me once.”

  Instantly Roz stiffened. “She did what?”

  “Gave me a good swat one day, when she was visiting, and she caught me climbing on the kitchen counter going after the cookie jar. I was about six, I think. Gave me a swat, pulled me off and told me I was a greedy, disrespectful little brat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? She had no right to touch you. I’d’ve skinned her for it.”

  “Then skinned me,” he pointed out. “As you’d told me never to climb on the counter, and not to take any cookies without asking first. So I took my lumps and slunk off.”

  “Anybody was going to give you lumps it was going to be me. Nobody lays hands on my children, and in my court there is no statute of limitations on the crime. That bitch.”

  “There now.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t you feel better?”

  “I believe I’ll make her very sorry before I’m done.” She walked with him toward the house. “You knew better than to put your hand in that cookie jar, Harper Jonathan Ashby.”

  “Yes’m.”

  She gave him a light elbow jab. “And don’t you smirk at me.”

  “I wasn’t, I was just thinking there are probably cookies in it now.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Cookies and milk sound pretty good.”

  “I guess they do. Let’s go harass David until we get some. But we have to do it now. I’ve got a date to get ready for.”

  ROZ KNEW THE styles and colors that not only flattered her, but suited her. She’d chosen the vintage Dior for its clean, flowing lines, and its pretty spun-gold color. The straight bodice, thin straps and rear drape left her back and shoulders bare.

  But that back and those arms and shoulders were toned. She saw to it. So she saw no reason not to show them off. She wore her grandmother’s diamonds—the drop earrings and tiered necklace that had come to her.

  And knowing she’d regret it, slipped on the high, thin-heeled sandals that showcased the toenails she’d painted the same delicate gold as the dress.

  She turned, to check the rear view in the mirror, and called out an absent “come in” at the knock on her door.

  “Roz, I just wanted to . . .” Stella stopped dead. “Holy Mother Mary. You look spectacular.”

  With a nod in the mirror, Roz turned again. “I really do. Sometimes you just want to knock them on their asses, know what I mean? I got an urge to do that tonight.”

  “Just—just stay there.” She rushed out again, and Roz heard her calling for Hayley.

  Amused, she picked up her purse—what had possessed her to pay so much for such a silly little thing—and began to slip what she considered necessary for the evening out inside it.

  “You’ve got to get a load of this,” Stella was saying, then pulled Hayley into the room.

  Hayley blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got to do a spin. Give us a little twirl.”

  Willing to oblige, Roz turned a circle, and Hayley crossed her arms over her chest and bowed her head.

  “We are not worthy. Are those real diamonds? I know it’s tacky to ask, but I can’t help it. They’re so . . . sparkly.”

  “They were my grandmother’s, and particularly special to me. Which reminds me. I have something I thought you might like to wear for your wedding, Stella. It would cover the bases of something old, borrowed, and blue.”

  She’d already taken the box out of her safe, and now handed it to Stella.

  “Oh, God.”

  “John gave them to me for my twenty-first birthday.” She smiled down at the sapphire earrings. “I thought they might suit the dress you’d picked out, but if they don’t I won’t be offended.”

  “There’s nothing they wouldn’t suit.” Gently Stella lifted one of the heart-shaped sapphire drops from the box. “They’re exquisite, and more, I’m so . . .”

  She broke off, waving a hand in front of her face as she sat on the side of the bed. “Sorry. I’m just so . . . that you’d lend them to me.”

  “If I had a sister, I’d like to think she’d enjoy wearing something of mine on her wedding day.”

  “I’m so touched, so honored. So . . . I’m going to have to sit here and cry for a couple minutes.”

  “That’s all right, you go ahead.”

  “You know, the something old in that tradition’s a symbol of the bride’s link to her family.” Hayley sniffed.

  Roz patted her cheek. “Trust you to know. Y’all can sit here and have a nice cry together.”

  “What? Where are you going?” Hayley demanded.

  “Downstairs. Mitch should be here shortly.”

  “But you can’t.” Biting her lip, and obviously torn between sitting with Stella or preventing a catastrophe, she waved her arms like a woman trying to stop a train. “You have to wait till he gets here, then you have to glide down the steps. That staircase is made for a woman to glide down. You’ve gotta make an entrance.”

  “No, I don’t—and you sound like my mother, who made me do just that for my escort—thank God it was John so we could laugh about it after—at the debut she forced me into. Believe me, the world will not end if I greet him at the door.”

  She snapped her purse closed, took one last glance in the mirror. “Plus, there’s another tradition I have to follow. If I don’t go down, get David’s approval on my dress, I’ll hurt his feelings. There are tissues in the drawer beside the bed,” she called out.

  She’d barely finished modeling for David and getting his approval when Mitch was at the door.

  Opening it, she had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen and hearing the low whistle of his breath. “Just how did I get this lucky?” he asked her.

  She laughed, held out her wrap. “The way you look in that tux, Doctor, you may get considerably luckier before the night’s over.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “I WAS TRYING to remember the last time I wore a tux.” Mitch slid behind the wheel of the car, giving himself the pleasure of another long look at Roz as he hitched on his seat belt. “Pretty sure it was a friend’s wedding. His oldest kid graduates high school this year.”

  “Now, that’s a shame, since you wear one so well.”

  “Lean over here once.” When she did, he brushed his lips over hers. “Yeah, tastes as good as it looks.”

  “It certainly does.”

  Starting the engine, he pulled away from the house. “We could skip this business tonight and run off and get married. We’re dressed for it.”

  She sent him a sidelong glance as he turned onto the main road. “Be careful how you bat those marriage proposals around, Dr. Carnegie. I’ve already shagged two in my time.”

  “Let me know if you want to try for three.”

  It felt spectacular, she realized, to be all dressed up and flirting with a handsome man. “You getting
serious on me?”

  “It’s looking that way. You need to consider I’m a rent-the-tux kind of guy, but I’d spring for one when you decide to take the jump. Least I can do.”

  “Of course, that is a deciding factor.”

  He laid his hand briefly over hers. “I make a good living, and your money isn’t an issue one way or the other with me. What baggage I’ve got, I’ve pretty well packed up. For the past many years, my son’s been the singular essential element in my life. He’s a man now, and while he’ll always be my great love, I’m ready for other loves, other essentials.”

  “And when he moves to Boston?”

  “It’s going to cut me off at the knees.”

  This time she laid her hand on his. “I know just how it feels.”

  “You can’t follow them everywhere. And I’ve been thinking it’s easy enough to visit Boston now and again, or take a trip here and there when he’s got a game somewhere appealing.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “I’m looking forward to that, too. I’m hoping you’re not going to be too uncomfortable with whatever friction there is between you and his date’s parents.”

  “I won’t be. Jan will. Being a spineless sort of woman who’s decided to be embarrassed by her friendship, such as it was, with me. It’s foolishness, but she’s a foolish sort. I, on the other hand, will enjoy making her feel awkward.”

  She stretched back and spoke with satisfaction. “But then, I have a mean streak.”

  “I always liked that about you.”

  “Good thing,” she said as they turned toward the club. “Because it’s likely to come out tonight.”

  IT WAS FASCINATING, to Mitch’s mind, to see how this set worked. The fancy dress, the fancy manners were a kind of glossy coat over what he thought of as basic high school clique syndrome. People formed small packs, at tables, in corners, or at strategic points where they could watch other packs. There were a few butterflies who flitted from group to group, flashing their wings, dipping into some of the nectar of gossip, then fluttering off to the next.